E'en those who dwell where suns at distance roll, 66 "O father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coast And snowy mountains thy bright presence boast: Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair, And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair; The change of sceptres and impending woe, He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye, power divine! And on thy hospitable Argos shine; Whether the style of Titan please thee more, Whose purple rays th' Achæmenes adore; Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain; Or Mithra, to whose beams the Persian bows, And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows; Mithra! whose head the blaze of light adorns, Who grasps the struggling heifer's lunar horns." |